


Consolation Prize

by st_crispins



Series: St. Crispin's Day Society shorts [14]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Elevator Sex, F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: Solo and Serena in a hotel elevator, out-maneuvering each other in more ways than one.
Relationships: Napoleon/Serena
Series: St. Crispin's Day Society shorts [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/345767
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Consolation Prize

_Somewhere in Washington D.C. Spring, 1967_.

An arm appeared from nowhere and slipped through his, the very moment he entered the hotel lounge.

“Napoleon, my darling, how lovely to see you again.”

Halting in his tracks, Napoleon Solo smiled to himself. He didn’t have to see her face to know who it was. He recognized the accent, the perfume and the grip.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Serena,” he said without turning, his gaze sweeping across the crowded, smoke filled room. Serena peered around his shoulder, demanding attention. Her full lips drew together into a rosebud pout.

“I don’t believe you. You don’t act very pleased at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

He bent down to kiss her and she met him halfway, her free hand caressing the curve of his jaw. Her mouth was open, expectant, hungry. He felt her tongue slide between his teeth as the kiss deepened.

 _So it’s going to be that kind of night_ , he told himself, and came up for air.

“That’s better,” Serena said, appeased. She looked especially desirable tonight, Solo thought. Her baby-blue satin cocktail dress was cut low in the front and even lower in the back. Although he’d never told her so, of all Thrush’s female agents, Serena was Solo’s favorite.

With her large, startled-doe eyes, and sleek, continental charm, she was an exquisite blend of cool sophistication and girlish vulnerability. She was smart, too — as cunning and unpredictable as a fox. If only she’d been blond, she would have been perfect.

“May I buy you a drink?” Serena inquired, coyly.

“Thanks, but I’d rather keep my head clear this evening.”

“Just one shouldn’t hurt.” The arm around Solo’s coiled tighter, like a boa constrictor. “A little one? For friendship’s sake?”

“Okay, if put it that way. Just one.”

As they walked to the bar together, Solo scanned the dimly lit lounge, searching for more Thrush agents. He guessed Serena wouldn’t be working alone.

But it was hopeless. There were several national conventions in town, and this particular hotel was packed with the merry-making members of the Fraternal Order of Moose.

With all the noise and laughter and the air thick with a burnished fog of cigarette smoke, individual faces melted together into one, muddled pool of humanity. A middle-aged man dressed in a paneled western-style suit and bolo tie surfaced just long enough to call out, “Hey, honey, c’mere. Have a drink on me!” Serena neatly avoided him and steered Solo to the other end of the mahogany bar.

The lone bartender was efficient, but harried. Several minutes passed before he arrived to take Solo’s order for two vodka martinis, very dry. Next to them, a sodden Moose decided to migrate to a fresh watering hole. Serena seized the vacated barstool for herself and perched close to Solo, who was leaning against the bar.

“It’s been at least six months since we saw each other last,” she said.

“Eight.”

“Oh no, really?” Her fingers danced playfully along his lapel, and toyed with his silk tie. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Stunt doubling for Herbie the Human Cannonball,” he replied dryly. “But the pay is lousy, so I test-drive Corvairs on weekends.”

Serena suppressed a grin. She hadn’t expected a straight answer. Offering the enemy even the smallest tidbit of truth would be sloppy tradecraft. “And what about your friend — the blond one? He doesn’t seem to be around.”

“It’s his bowling night.”

The drinks arrived. As Solo reached for his billfold, Serena grasped his elbow and squeezed. “Oh no. It was my invitation, so it’s my treat.” When he tried to protest she added, “You said you were underpaid, remember?”

Solo surrendered with a gracious shrug. “All right, but at least allow me to salvage a shred of dignity by leaving the tip.” He tossed four quarters on the counter as Serena sampled her martini. The bartender reappeared, briefly, to scoop up the dollar bills and change.

“You know, Napoleon, I don’t think your friend will ever forgive me for my little faux pas.”

 _No wonder_ , Solo thought, if you consider attempted murder merely a minor breach of good manners, but he didn’t say that aloud.

Serena was nudging closer to him, coaxing him to kiss her, and he did. Twice. “European men are sticklers for etiquette,” Solo remarked, returning to his drink.

“Mmmm. I suppose that’s why I prefer American men.” Her hand snaked between Solo’s trouser legs, and discreetly stroked his crotch. He felt himself stiffen in more ways than one. “American men are more agreeable, more understanding.”

Her fingers continued to massage his erection, while his legs slowly went to rubber.

“— More flexible.”

Draining his glass, Solo replaced it on the counter. Through a sheer act of will, his own hand remained steady. “Ah, Serena my sweet, if we get any more, ah, ‘flexible’ here, they’re going to call in the vice squad.”

“You wish to retire upstairs to my room?”

“It might be a good idea,” Solo agreed. _While I still can walk straight_.

Serena gathered up her beaded clutch purse, and they left the bar and headed for the elevators. Two cars came and went before they found one they could have all to themselves. Serena tapped the nineteenth floor button. When the doors closed, they drew together into a tight embrace.

Serena was as eager and passionate as ever. He felt her tongue flick lightly into his mouth again; felt her mold her body against his; felt her shift ever so slightly, as her hand reached out to push the emergency button. They broke apart as the elevator car lurched to a sudden halt between floors. Solo wasn’t surprised. He’d been expecting something like this. Nor was he particularly upset to see a small, silver .22 automatic materialize from Serena’s purse. He’d been expecting that, too.

“I’m afraid I’m guilty of bad manners again,” Serena apologized, pointing the gun at him, “but there are two very large, nasty men waiting for you in the room next to mine. We both know you’re carrying a certain important piece of microfilm. Why don’t you simply hand it over to me now, and save us all a great deal of trouble.”

Solo chuckled softly.

“What is so amusing?” the Thrush woman demanded.

“Ah, Serena, my dear. You must have gotten your signals crossed. You intercepted the play all right, but you tackled the receiver before our team could complete the pass.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve corralled the wrong guy.”

“You’re not the courier? You mean that someone down there still has it —?”

Solo nodded.

“But who?” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s that horrible drunk in the bolo tie!” She watched as Solo nodded again, laughing. He pushed both hands into his pockets, and casually leaned back against the wall of the elevator car.

“Don’t bother to call your people, Serena. Our courier saw me leave with you. I’m sure he’s long gone by now. Mr. Waverly will probably reschedule the drop with someone else tonight.”

“And to think, I spent the better part of an hour before you arrived, refusing that vulgar man’s advances! Oh Napoleon, this is all very unfair.”

“Face it, sweet. You blew it.”

But Serena was not yet convinced. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

Solo shrugged. “Go ahead. Search me. Shoot me if you must, but you won’t find anything. Do you honestly believe I’d climb into a deserted elevator with you if I had the microfilm on me?”

“You have a point,” Serena admitted. “You may be crazy, but you’re not stupid.” The barrel of the .22 drooped limp in her hand. She jammed the gun back into her purse with a defeated sigh. “And I was so looking forward to a friendly fuck before my men took you apart.”

“We could still go to my room.”

“No,” Serena replied sadly. “It’s under surveillance, too.”

“Another hotel, then?”

“I’m afraid not.” She checked her watch. “They’re expecting me upstairs in about five minutes.”

Solo dragged her back into his arms. “ _How_ many minutes?” he asked, between kisses.

“Five, but I’ll tell them we took the stairs.”

He knew what she liked: variety, novelty, with a little spice of danger. He knew how she liked it, too: quick, urgent, breathless, intense. The first time they’d made love, it was in a shower. The second was in an airplane lavatory. Now, it was an elevator. As he continued to kiss her, capturing her mouth so it was pressed solidly against his, Solo wondered if he’d ever have sex with her horizontally.

Her dress parted easily. He undid the tiny rhinestone buttons while her hands busied themselves with his fly. Her bra unfastened from the front. She was wearing garters, but no underpants. Illya couldn’t understand Solo’s fascination with Thrush women, but since the Russian abstained from them, himself, he would never know what they were like, first-hand. Solo found them incredibly exciting. Self-possessed and resourceful. Deliciously impulsive, yet somehow, always well-prepared.

 _Three cheers for Thrush recruiters,_ the agent told himself as they continued to grope and suckle each other with lustful abandon. He mouthed her body from neck to thigh and back again with sharp, rapid kisses, though it wasn’t really necessary. He could tell by her heat and the scent of her musk that she was ready for him. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he locked his elbows and lifted her up by the thighs.

Serena shifted, until he was positioned properly inside her, then she braced herself against the elevator wall for support. Solo drove into her, with keen, deep thrusts, arching her higher and higher, until it seemed as if she were impaled in mid-air. Serena mewed softly, swallowing gasps, as her excitement escalated. Solo accelerated the pace. Now, he pumped harder, burying his face in her breasts, cradling her rump in the palms of his hands.

Serena threw her head back. Her shoulders thumped loudly against the wall. One high heel dropped, then another. She moaned aloud as she rushed toward her climax. A split-second before she reached it, she flung out one arm. Her finger stabbed at the emergency button, releasing the elevator. The motor engaged, their bodies convulsed, and the ground moved, quite literally, for both of them. Afterward, they clung to each other, sweaty and spent, as the car glided upward.

“And you call _me_ crazy?” Solo exclaimed a while later, when they arrived at the nineteenth floor. All their clothes were back in place. He kept the “hold” button depressed, allowing Serena time to adjust the drape of her dress.

“Don’t whine, darling. It doesn’t become you.”

She ran a fast comb through her hair and inspected the result in a pocket mirror. Snapping shut her purse, she sighed. “And now, I suppose, you must hit me and knock me out, to provide us both with a reasonable alibi.”

“You know I would never hit you, Serena, my sweet,” Solo said, taking her into his arms again. As he pretended to kiss her, he broke open a tiny capsule, just below her nose. Serena’s gray eyes rolled back and she slumped.

“Knock you out, maybe,” Solo told the unconscious woman, “but never hit you.” With a farewell peck on the cheek, he left her in the nineteenth floor hallway, sleeping peacefully in a chair next to the elevator.

The return trip was uneventful. As Solo predicted, the man in the bolo tie was nowhere in sight, but the same bartender was still on duty. Watching Solo cross the lounge, the bartender offered him the faintest tip of the chin.

 _Mission accomplished_ , Solo told himself, with satisfaction. For the truth was, Serena had been right all along. Solo had been carrying the microfilm — or microdot, to be more precise — hidden between the layers of a dummy coin in his pocket.

But he hadn’t exactly lied to her in the elevator, either. By that time, he was as clean as he claimed to be. He’d tipped the bartender earlier, with the dummy coin, while reciting a silent prayer that Serena wouldn’t notice the two-headed quarter. The bartender, who was also an U.N.C.L.E. agent, later passed along the quarter as change, when the undercover agent in the bolo tie paid his tab.

It was nice to win a game once in awhile, Solo thought as he sauntered through the hotel lobby. It was even nicer when you walked away with the consolation prize, too.

The agent exited through the revolving doors and, whistling a cheerful tune, he disappeared into the night.


End file.
